The Painted Slippers, An Undercurse Fable

The Not So Silent Years (CH9)

On the inside of the gates to Macabre House was a red dingy letter box. Why it was there, Rowena didn't know. However, she used it to post the letter to her parents and, seen as though she didn't know their exact location, she merely hoped and prayed that it would reach them through their names. "It will reach them," Edie reassured her, a hand on her shoulder. She had been fretting so much about the matter. 

"Thank you Edie, and you too Marlin..." Rowena said with a quivering sigh, despite Marlin being elsewhere, picking rust off of the gate and eating it, "It is good to have you both here. If I didn't have you, it would be unbearable." After all, it did all come down to what Iribelle had said, her words as clear as day, where there is creativity and good company , there's a home. And with her new friends in this dark place, she had just that. Only this would be short lived.

The next day, a dark woman with fluffy black hair drew her face up to the bars whilst Rowena was outside scribbling in her scrapbook. "Someone! Please! I need to speak to Mr Maddaly!" she shouted, rattling the gate bars relentlessly, though they still remained firmly in one place. A group of tatty children scurried in at her word. 

The woman was Edie's mother, known as Mrs. G to Mr Maddaly, and in her hands sat a enourmous stack of Kinellish gold notes. Desperation caused her voice to faulter, "I have brought you your money, cruel monster, now give me back my daughter!"

And for once, Mr Maddaly happily obliged. The gate was opened, by only a smidge. The sight of it brought a jolt to Rowena's heart. It was a moment.  A sign from the universe. A chance, but escape had it's repercussions. If she escaped, her parents would end up on a wild goose chase trying to get back to her. It was easier for her to stay put, if easy were indeed the suitable word to describe it. 

Edie ran quickly into her mother's arms. The sobs of relief were as haunting as the sobs for a wandering home, as the arms grasping for embrace and the nights spent alone in the dark. Mrs Greene ran her hands over her daughter's hair and face, kissing her, calming her, welcoming her home. Edie rubbed her eyes, "You shouldn't have given into him, mama." 

"I didn't have a choice, my flower. You are safe now and that is all that matters."

Before they left for their freedom, Edie turned to Rowena, who was watching eagerly through the bars with her big chartreuse eyes. The new liberation didn't light up Edie's face the way she had expected. There were no smiles. Not a sliver of victorious laughter. "Stay hopeful. You will get out I promise." Edie said.

The other's ears pricked, "Do you promise...upon the very beating of your heart?"

Tearfully nodding, Edie turned her back to Macabre House, "Yes, I promise upon the very beating of my heart. Now, goodbye Rowena, I pray that we will see each other again."

"So do I..."

Now it was her tiny hands that rested almost lifelessly against the gate. One of her friends had gone already. Ripped away, like Claira had been and all too quickly. It was all to be a matter of one thing: time. All she had to do was...wait.

She waited for days, weeks, months, seasons, that somehow turned themselves into years. Seconds of April came and went, though she did ensure they never went without some form of celebration. As all the time when Mr Maddaly was out on his 'business' and Morfydd was attending her lessons, there was nobody around to care that she had covered the walls of the bedroom in illustrations and that she crafted toys from scraps of fabric for all of the children. None of their birthdays passed without cheer, and in return, neither did hers. Even Lavender, who was not partial to children or cheer, joined in for these occasions.

It was the stories that were the best. The children could not get enough of them and neither could she, it offered some escapism and it could take them wherever they wanted to go, whilst still being confined in the four monstrous walls of Macabre House. Soon, she ran out of tales from Farforth and she had to make up her own. About haberdasheries, grand garments for grand balls, magic and statues that came to life. But despite all this creativity that blossomed from her, from her heart, from her soul, she was still waiting. She was still restless. She could still sit by the window for days on end, watching children come and go, come and go, until the child within her began to wither.